


(i'll go) wherever you will go

by fadeoutin (orphan_account)



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:58:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/fadeoutin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a bit ridiculous, but Lucina can't get rid of Severa that easily. Or how Severa realized how much of an idiot Lucina really is: a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(i'll go) wherever you will go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magicasen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen/gifts).



The Risen corpse makes a dry sucking sound as Severa yanks her sword out, and it collapses into a heap of brittle bones and ash. She makes a face, waving her free hand over her face to prevent herself from inhaling… reanimated dead bits. Overhead the light is dying, and the cold air from the east hints of another uncomfortable night. She squints toward the tree line as she wipes her sword down, catches the flash of fire that’s certainly Morgan’s work, and makes her way across the plain.

“Severa, you’re okay!”

She can see how he twitches with barely-restrained enthusiasm and allows a bit of a smirk to show. If she were anyone else, he’d be halfway to strangling her already, but he behaves and keeps his hands to himself. Barely.

Severa arches an eyebrow and shifts her gaze towards the burning pile of Risen.

“Um, I’m not sure if it’s possible for Risen to be re-enchanted to, um, rise again,” he admits sheepishly, scratching behind his ear. “So I’m just making sure? Just in case. Mother does it all the time. So I’m on Risen-staying-dead duty.”

Severa won’t mention Robin running around the battlefield spewing fire from her fingertips and burning Risen falling into each other isn’t really equivalent to _Mother does it all the time_ , but she holds her tongue. Instead, she asks, “Where’s everyone else?”

“They’re setting up camp. We have enough food for a good meal tonight but maybe it’s a good idea to send someone into the forest? I think I saw a deer watching the battle. But I’m not entirely sure it was a deer.”

“Morgan.” His chatter stops and he blinks. “Where’s camp?”

“Oh! Um, over there.” He points towards a nice curve nearby where the edge of the plain meets a thick copse of trees. The overhanging branches look sturdy enough to hold someone up for watch. As she moves closer she spots the convoy by the tree line and sees figures moving around. One of them catches her attention, and she’s struck momentarily by the strangeness of it all.

Cordelia emerges from the side of the convoy, arms full of firewood. Severa still feels that stab of pain deep in her chest whenever she thinks of her mother, but this woman does not fit the picture in her memories. The mother she remembers had hair the color of the fading sunset and eyes as sharp as her spear. Her armor seemed like it had been silvery once, perhaps polished to gleaming, but it had faded into a dull, blood-spattered pewter. Her mother was a fierce warrior, able to hold the line through ranks upon ranks of Risen. This busybody woman who scrambles around camp is _not_ her mother.

It still doesn’t make much sense to her how they ended up in the past through some sort of powerful magic, but they’re here and Grima has not won yet so she probably should be thankful.

Maybe.

Severa scowls at the thought. Or maybe not.

The other members of their company simply nod a greeting in her direction as she passes them. She’s bitten a few overly friendly heads off before, and she’s sure none of them want to relive that experience.

Lucina is bent over a pile of firewood, blowing on a handful of kindling. The licking flames catch, spreading quickly over the dry branches. Severa grins a little. Here she is, the exalt’s daughter from the future, setting up a campfire in the middle of nowhere, dirty and—Severa sniffs—desperately needing a bath.

“Hey.” Somehow, Lucina manages to be somewhat regal, even though she looks like she’s about to fall apart. It had been a long and hard winter, but the Risen seem even more vicious now that the snow has melted.

“Sit down, you idiot. You look like you’re half dead!”

Lucina chuckles. Anyone else would’ve been offended. Not coincidentally, Severa doesn’t give a damn what anyone else thinks.

“Hello to you, too. Severa—I’m _fine_.” Lucina tries to bat her hands away, but Severa will have none of it, and she drags a bedroll over from the nearby convoy and sits Lucina down. “ _Severa_.”

Severa ignores her and produces a roll of bandages and some pungent-smelling salve that’s supposed to be Libra’s concoction. “How many?”

Lucina sighs, squirming away from Severa’s touch. “I’m—”

“If you say you’re fine one more time, I’m telling Morgan to pull you out next battle. Ah.” Severa lifts a finger when Lucina opens her mouth to protest, silencing her immediately. “How many?”

It’s a bit of a ritual now, this back-and-forth they both have after skirmishes, that it has become a familiar sight and no one pays them any notice. Lucina reluctantly allows her cuts to be dressed, and for once Severa is silent. There aren’t many wounds—there never are; Lucina is too good a fighter to have a patchwork of scars. But she prefers to fight alone too often and sometimes the quicker of the Risen can get in a lucky shot.

Severa isn’t even the exalt’s future daughter and she gets someone to watch her back, even though it’s usually just Morgan. It’s a little frustrating having a tactician as her partner, because he’s usually busy directing the troops and she has to save his life all the time. Robin’s a lot better at it, but Morgan—Severa shakes her head—Morgan is hopeless.

Sounds of the camp settling down fill the air. Nearby, over the fire Lucina lit, Libra—who is not her father, but could be, because at least he understands the value of giving someone space—stirs a pot of stew, and the earthy, spicy smell of it warms Severa down to her bones. Spring has been relatively kind to them, which is a sharp contrast to the biting winter that had just left them. They almost lost Stahl to the coughing sickness after he fell through thin ice into a river, but thankfully he survived. Severa’s suspicious of Tharja’s involvement in Stahl’s recovery, but the witch had been surprisingly tender with him while he convalesced. She’s not ruling out Tharja being responsible for his actual sickness, though. Robin might be clueless of it, but nearly the entire camp knows Tharja’s been playing with curses around their tactician.

(Robin’s still alive, though. So that probably counts for something.)

“Severa.” She looks up as she ties off the last bandage. The expression on Lucina’s face is almost tender, and Severa is barely able to keep her answering smile back. “I never say it, but thank you. No one really bothers, and frankly I can do it myself but—Severa, I was being nice.”

 _I know._ Severa schools her glare into a blank mask. “You’re welcome.”

“Severa.”

“I’m taking first watch. I’ll go clean up.”

“Sev—okay. Okay.”

Severa refuses to look back. She hates it when Lucina uses that voice—like she’s a child who needs coddling. She had been doing fine on her own in their timeline, living off the land and clearing out small pockets of Risen for coin to mend her armor. She doesn’t need anyone here.

After her ablutions, she runs into Cordelia pitching a tent, probably her third of the night, because this woman who is not her mother can’t seem to just let people do their work in peace. Cordelia tries. She really does. But Severa wants nothing to do with bonding moments and tracing out objects in the sky by connecting stars because that’s what she used to do with her real mother.

“Severa!” Cordelia says, smiling brightly. Her smile fades, just a little, when Severa only arches an eyebrow in response, but she gamely recovers. “I noticed you treating Lucina’s wounds—that’s nice. I scouted the land while there was still light and could you tell her we’re close to the meeting place? It would be nice to see the rest of the company again.”

 _It would be nice to see Chrom, more like._ Severa’s inner voice, she realizes, isn’t very nice. To Cordelia, she says, “tell her yourself,” and pushes past her to climb up one of the trees that circle the camp. Hurt flashes across Cordelia’s face, and Severa tamps down the answering surge of longing because she misses her mother so much but _this woman is not her mother_.

She settles into a curve of branches, bundling her cloak tighter around her body as the night grows chilly. Around camp, the fires are banked to hide their presence here in the wilds. A tree close to hers rustles, and Gerome’s solemn face peeks out from its leaves. His gaze cuts to hers and he holds their stare for a few moments before nodding, just once. When they were fighting together in the future that might never happen, taking the night watch meant holding the rest of their lives in your hand. Severa tilts her head in acknowledgement and turns back out towards the dark expanse of land ahead. 

-

Severa is up with the first shout of alarm, and this—this she knows very well: the rush of energy that floods through her body when she grips her sword and the thundering of her heart that threatens to beat itself out of her chest. She shakes off memories of death and smoke and the smell of a burning sky as she races out of her tent. Her mo— _Cordelia_ is already up on her Pegasus, a javelin in her throwing arm, her face fierce with anger, hair trailing like fire behind her—and Severa lets loose the breath she didn’t know she was holding because _this_ woman is so familiar she could almost be—

No, she could _never_ be.

Morgan is up in a tree, brow furrowed in concentration. His father’s old longbow is strung taut for a breath, and then the arrow swiftly finds a wyvern’s gullet. Lucina is further ahead, Falchion at the ready to meet the oncoming Risen. The rest of their company is much slower to rise, sluggishly shaking sleep from their limbs, and Severa’s eyes dart around camp, searching.

She grabs at the reins of a nut-brown horse and tugs savagely. The horse neighs loudly and veers toward her, and Severa springs lightly onto its bare back. He rears up at the unfamiliar rider, and she clamps her thighs tight, shifts her hips forward, and the horse bucks with her motion. He’s Sully’s, she notices as he straightens up to get his bearings, and he’s too well-trained to throw a seasoned rider. She shifts again, urges him forward, and he leaps into motion.

The Risen have nearly surrounded the camp. If not for the shelter of the trees, they would have been overwhelmed. Another mounted Risen falls with a javelin straight through its eye, and Severa looks up. Cordelia’s Pegasus neighs loudly as it cuts down in a quick swoop, trampling a group of nearby Risen to dust. It rises again, powerful wings spread out, pure white and gleaming in the soft light of the moon, and for a moment Severa is stunned.

And then her mo— _Cordelia_ yells out, “Severa, on your left!” and the moment is broken. Sully’s horse deftly dodges the downward slice of a Risen swordsman, and Severa quickly lops off its head. She parries an axe, stabs her sword straight up through the Risen’s stomach, and pulls out fast enough to slice through another’s torso. Shouts can be heard from somewhere behind her, along with the clash of steel and the hammer of hoofbeats, and she sighs in exasperation because _finally_. 

She’s not being mean—not really, because her mother taught her to respect her elders and despite everyone being close to the same age— _Naga’s buttocks how weird is that?_ —she doesn’t sense the same urgency with the older generation in this time.

There is a war at hand. If the Fell Dragon returns, the world is _over_. Why are they joining in village festivals and rescuing cats from trees? Severa just, ugh. She doesn’t understand it at all, and she takes it out on a mounted Risen, barreling into it with enough force to knock it clean off its also-Risen horse.

Severa is in the thick of battle when she sees a flash of blue at the corner of her eye. Sully’s horse is a clever fellow who kicks back his hind legs as she leans forward to swing her sword. So when he clears out the Risen behind her with a well-placed hoof to the head, she sees the lance speeding towards Lucina’s unprotected back.

The exalt’s daughter is busy grappling with what was once a burly man clad in wolf furs before he was killed and subsequently turned. Severa yells out a warning, yanks hard on the reins despite the horse’s whine of protest, but she’s too late. Lucina breaks free from her opponent and runs it through with her sword. The expression of triumph on her face quickly morphs into a grimace of pain as the spear finds its home in her shoulder. She cries out, falling to her knees. Falchion clatters to the ground.

Severa sees red.

Fire blurs her vision. _Morgan_ , her mind helpfully supplies. A swift gale sweeps past, casting Risen aside in its wake. There’s a crackle that follows, bright light that cuts through the night, and the smell of burning flesh fills the air. Sully’s horse is straining, sprinting towards the fallen exalt and Severa can’t handle the bubbling of rage that pours out from deep inside her.

She roars, sword held aloft. The pommel comes down, cracking a skull; her sword shifts, slants sideways and cleanly severs a head from it shoulders. She ducks an axe aimed for her neck, stabs her sword through something’s ribs—every action a flurry of movement driven by instinct. All she can think of is Lucina on her knees; Lucina bleeding with a spear through her shoulder— _Lucina_.

Severa leaves the rest of her thoughts for the killing.

-

It’s Morgan— _it’s always Morgan_ —who half-carries her off Sully’s horse when it wanders back into camp. Severa’s nearly dead to the world, sweaty and exhausted and covered in Risen ash. It’s Morgan who cleans her wounds and wipes the ash off her skin and makes her take weak sips from his waterskin. He gently removes her leathers, and after he rubs ointment on her bruises, his tent smells minty fresh and Severa feels like she can actually breathe again. He slips her into a clean shift when he’s done, shifts her arm over his shoulders, and slowly, slowly leads her to Lucina’s tent.

Severa feels eyes on her as they move through the camp, but they are concerned and hopeful and she really, really does not know what to think of it. But everything fades away when Morgan lifts the tent flap because _Lucina_.

She is pale and shivering though she’s bundled in layers upon layers of blankets. Morgan eases her onto a pallet right beside Lucina’s bedroll and drapes a thick fur over her shoulders before moving to help Libra. They check Lucina’s bandages while Severa stares at all the blood staining the once-white cloths. _A fever_ , she hears them speak among themselves. _The spearhead was tainted, dirty_ , but she is distracted. She watches in her mind’s eye as the spear pierces Lucina’s shoulder again; watches her curl into herself with the pain; watches her drop to her knees and—no, _no_ , Lucina kneels for _no one_.

When they are done, Morgan curls her trembling fingers around the neck of a warmed waterskin and, before leaving the tent, whispers into her ear. _She’s okay, Severa. Take care of her._

Libra wraps his arms around her and finally she sobs out loud, murmurs _father, father_ over and over again while he simply holds her, lets her cling to him like the daughter she wishes she could be—the daughter she thinks he might like to know. He doesn’t say a word, and Severa thinks he really doesn’t need to.

-

Lucina wakes after the third day. Her fever has broken and the worst is over. Severa is curled into a bedroll beside her, caught up in a restless sort of sleep. Her dreams are angry and vivid reminders of their past, of this world’s future if they fail. There are flashes of her mother, a spear in hand, instructing her; her father returning home after a long day of planning, placing his axe upon a shelf high enough that she cannot reach it, and pulling her into his embrace. Severa dreams of dragonfire and battlefields drenched in blood; dreams of the day her mother never returned, of the battle when the skies thickened with lightning and her Pegasus was struck dead. If it weren’t for Gerome, she would have died that day.

She dreams and dreams, tossing and turning in her sleep, murmuring _no_ and _please_ and _don’t leave me_.

“Severa,” Lucina whispers, her throat dry. At the sound of her voice, Severa whimpers in her sleep, shifting around as if shying away from something.

Lucina grunts as she pulls herself up to a sitting position, wincing at the sharp pain in her shoulder. She takes a few breaths to ease the pain away, and then slowly touches Severa’s cheek.

Severa jolts awake, hand scrabbling for the sword that isn’t by her side. Then she sees Lucina, watches her lips curl up into a smile, and promptly explodes.

“ _You!_ You, you idiot! How _could_ you,” Severa growls low, her finger pointing accusingly. Lucina’s eyes are wide, her mouth hanging open, but Severa doesn’t let her speak. The memories are too fresh—her nightmares to close to the surface that she cannot feign her usual indifference.

“You could have died out there because you wanted to play hero and go out on your own. I… _Lucina_ , you.” Severa clenches her fists, her frustration clear.

“Severa, I don’t understand—”

Severa clasps Lucina’s hand between her own and sighs. She searches for words, any words that will help Lucina understand this feeling she cannot even explain herself. All she knows is that when Lucina is happy, she is content. When Lucina hurts, she rages inside. She remembers that one moment in their future-past that she realized Lucina wasn’t simply her comrade, wasn’t just the commander of their struggling resistance. _She could rule us_ , Severa had thought then, watching as Lucina approached Naga with the kind of bearing one would expect from kings. _I would bow to her. I would call her queen._ And from that memory, Severa has her words.

“I _know_ we’re not in our time. I know here, right now, Chrom is the exalt, but. You are _my_ exalt,” she whispers, her eyes bright and burning. "You just—you _can’t_ die. I forbid it.”

The expression on Lucina’s face grows tender. She opens her arms and Severa leans into her, mindful of Lucina’s injured shoulder.

“I’m okay,” Lucina says, as she hugs Severa. “It’s alright. I’m okay.”

“And you’re not leaving this tent until father gives you permission to,” Severa mumbles, her voice muffled by Lucina’s shift.

Alarmed, Lucina protests. “But Severa, we’re—”

“Nope. You’re not leaving. I already told Morgan to keep you out of his tactics and formations and stuff. So shut up and listen to me.”

“I—” Severa pulls back and looks Lucina in the eye, and whatever Lucina was about to say is quickly forgotten.

“Please rest,” Severa whispers. “Take care of yourself. And then when you’re fully healed you can go be an idiot again, but not one moment sooner.”

And here Lucina smiles. “Alright,” she says.

“Alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> hi yuletide gift recipient!
> 
> I hope all is well with you and your family, wherever you are in this world.
> 
> it's funny how, during my playthrough of the game, I really didn't care much for Severa but omg Lucina you poor angsty batman baby counterpart to Morgan the dorky idiot. and then you went along and planted a Severa/Lucina seed in my head and it wouldn't let me not write it so. here you are. your present. I hope you think it's shiny.
> 
> and I liked your idea so much I want to do a few more chapters of it, but those are sort of vague in my head at the moment, so I dunno. if you randomly get surprise updates, then that's probably great right?
> 
> blah blah blah. tl;dr yay presents for you! :D?
> 
> much love and cheer and fun stuff from your yuletide author
> 
> ps. I based the parents after my own playthrough. hope that's okay.


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